DIGITS OF THE HEART

📘Chapter 5: Mic Check, Heart Check

The next evening, the community center was packed again. Word had spread, Clarion Harriet was performing. But Harizon wasn’t just here for her anymore. Something had shifted.

Zawadi stood backstage, clutching a folded piece of paper. Her fingers trembled slightly. Harizon caught her eye from the crowd and gave a small nod.

“You got this,” he mouthed.

She stepped onto the stage.

The room hushed.

She unfolded the paper, took a breath, and began.

Inheritance

I inherited silence

From a woman who spoke in thunder

Her words, wild rivers

Mine, dried tributaries

Afraid to flow without her permission

I inherited grief

Folded in the corners of her journals

Pressed between verses like wilted petals

I read them at midnight

And wondered if pain could rhyme

I inherited strength

Not the kind that roars

But the kind that stays

Stacks chairs after the slam

Smiles when it hurts

Loves without applause

Tonight

I return the silence

I unwrap the grief

I wear her strength

And I speak—

Not for her

But because of her

The room was still. No snaps, no claps; just stunned silence. Then, slowly, the applause built. A standing ovation.

Harizon stood too, heart pounding. Zawadi stepped down, eyes glistening, and walked straight to him.

“I did it,” she whispered.

“You did,” he said. “And it was beautiful.”

But before he could say more, the door opened.

Clarion Harriet walked in.

Braids tied back. A notebook in hand. She scanned the room and her eyes landed on Harizon and Zawadi standing close.

The air shifted.

Zawadi noticed. Her smile faltered.

Clarion approached, her expression unreadable.

“Harizon,” she said. “You came.”

“I did,” he replied, stepping slightly away from Zawadi.

“I’m glad,” Clarion said, then turned to Zawadi. “That was… powerful.”

Zawadi nodded. “Thanks.”

The tension was thick. Three stories, three hearts, one stage.

“I’m up next,” Clarion said, heading backstage.

Harizon watched her go, torn between admiration and confusion.

Zawadi looked at him. “She’s your verse, isn’t she?”

Harizon hesitated. “She was. But maybe… I’m still writing.”